


Darkest Before the Dawn

by Octobig



Series: Heart of Steel [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, In Denial, Romance, Slow Burn, spoilers for up unto Here Lies the Abyss and Wicked Eyes & Wicked Hearts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 08:09:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12294987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Octobig/pseuds/Octobig
Summary: Cassandra always expected romance to be easily noticed and explicit.She didn’t expect romance to show itself in the details, the side-notes. In the way the warmth of a hand felt or how a smile could light its own fire in her heart. She didn’t expect to be afraid of it, and she certainly didn’t expect the things she learned from her books and from the world to hold her back.To stop her from seeing what she could have seen coming, had she been more attentive to the details.[Or alternatively: in which Varric releases a new book, bets are made, and Cassandra realizes she's been in love with the Inquisitor ever since they met.]





	Darkest Before the Dawn

When Varric releases the next chapter of _Swords & Shields_, all of Skyhold seems to be keenly aware of it.

Ever since it got out that the stubborn, hard-headed, justice-wielding Seeker – the Right Hand of the Divine, the Hero of Orlais, the seventy-eighth in line to the throne of Nevarra – might occasionally enjoy a literary endeavor into the realm of romance and heraldry, the books in question have grown infinitely more popular in both Ferelden and Orlais.

Including the general populace of Skyhold, apparently.

It makes Cassandra huff in protest.

She’s not sure what she takes more offense to – the fact that everybody now seems to realize that she’s an enthusiastic lover of poetry and romance or the fact that admitting to liking tacky romance serials has become normal and accepted ever since the Hero of Orlais seems to enjoy those kinds of things.

(The whispered titles, she hates them still. Divine Justinia is no more, and Cassandra has never been a hero.)

The fact that Varric is at the center of it yet again is also quite high up on the list of things that make her want to throttle the training dummies in the courtyard. Of course, the dwarf is more smug than ever, capitalizing on the sudden popularity of his formerly down-in-the-dumps serials.

And Cassandra can do nothing but struggle in vain against the too-strong current of the bursting bubble that suddenly surrounds _Swords & Shields_. Luckily, she is still intimidating enough to stare anyone away who approaches her to talk about the books in question.

Well, everyone except the Inquisitor’s closest companions, whose commentary on the whole situation is less than positive.

 _Utterly senseless drivel_ , Dorian calls it, twirling his moustache, _of the less than savory variety._

 _Never been one for knightly romances,_ Blackwall lies, a hand on the back of his neck.

 _There’s not enough pictures_ , Sera says, arms crossed, _and not enough girls, either._

 _I prefer them real and in my hands_ , Iron Bull chuckles, elbowing Krem.

 _Oh, but the Council of Heralds includes the series’ greatest fans, my dear_ , Vivienne says, smiling knowingly.

 _Those books? I-I know next to nothing about them_ , Cullen stammers, a furious blush on his cheeks.

 _I think it’s good for morale_ , the Inquisitor had said, her smile sweet and her words the kindest.  _Romance beats Corypheus any day._

Cassandra had agreed with her, silently.

And then Cabot had opened a new betting roster at _The Herald’s Rest_ on which one of the romantic leads would be the one that the guard-captain would end up with. Despite feigned disinterest, despite feigned mockery, and despite making fun of her for putting _Swords & Shields_ in the spotlight in the first place…

… all of her friends had put in a bet of their own.

The first time Cassandra had helped herself to a drink at the back of the tavern, casually glancing up at the large chalkboard on which Cabot usually announced the menu and new drinks, she’d accidently sprayed Iron Bull with her mead in shock.

She still almost crawls out of her own skin every time she walks past it, seeing familiar names and handwriting flash over the board from the corner of her eye. Josephine’s exemplary, beautiful handwriting; Leliana’s long, graceful lines, and the strangely stilted scrawl from Cullen that she recognizes from his military reports. Sera’s nearly intelligible writing embellished by vulgar drawings as always, and Dagna’s clean, fearless lettering.

Cassandra had tried to be as inconspicuous as she could, checking the board as innocently as possible, and discovered after three days that only two names were missing from the Inquisitor’s main circle of friends.

Her own, and the Inquisitor’s.

( _Thank the Maker_.)

Meanwhile, no matter where she goes in Skyhold – from the serene, quiet garden to the rooftop towers and from the stables to the merchant stalls – _everybody_ is speculating about it. They ponder, chitter-chatter, and sigh placidly like a bunch of silly, swooning courtiers.

Would it be the handsome rogue vigilante, the chivalrous knight, the young and kind Chantry priest, the stoic Templar, the sweet mage?

The newest greenhorn addition to the guard or the wicked court magistrate, or perhaps even the mysterious fortuneteller?

The betting pool keeps growing, and the talk makes Cassandra wants to kill something, preferably a bear. Several, even, and running off to the Hinterlands seems to become more attractive with every minute that passes spent in the company of Skyhold’s finest.

And yet it also makes her want to join in on the conversation, because _no_ , half of them haven’t even read the previous installments, and they don’t understand why that character could never be an option to the guard-captain, _you fools,_ it would never work out because they don’t match, _not like that_ –

– but Cassandra buries that feeling as deeply as she can.

( _Frivolous_ , something in her still protests, despite the heavy beating of her traitorous heart.)

Luckily, there’s always something else to do to distract her – help Cullen inspect the troops, clean her armor and shield, practice her form some more with the training dummies, join Solas for some intellectually stimulating discussion; the list is endless.

In a dark world with a broken sky and an ancient magister who still needs killing, Cassandra finds she can be as busy as she wants to be. And while Varric dawdles on with the next book in the series, proclaiming to bring an end to the betting pool once and for all, inspiring shrieking amongst his biggest fans in the kitchen staff and desperate changes on the chalkboard in the tavern, Cassandra continues on living.

Which includes fighting, mostly, but that’s alright.

She’s been doing that her entire life.

She falls into the Fade at Adamant, and the appearance of Justinia nearly breaks her own soul in half, faith shattered but remade anew after. Her fingers won’t work as she tries to put her experience to paper, every word a mockery of what she felt and what she saw.

She chases Lord Seeker Lucius to Caer Oswin, and it’s like this version of the man she once knew has a demon inside him, too. She reads the book he gives her, after; the almost holy lines of text that her once-great order was built upon, and she wants to weep with how much malice grew forth from it.

( _Never again_ , she thinks, _never again; we did this, we broke the world_.)

She stands at the court in Orlais, uncomfortable in her dress uniform, plucking at the buttons and the hem. _You wouldn’t put a battering ram in a dress_ , she thinks, _so why a dress uniform if I could just wear my armor?_

But something about seeing the people dancing sparks something in her chest, longing and warm.

Of course, then there’s sneaking through the Winter Palace, blood and murder and Venatori and ragtag elven spies – not to mention the rifts, the almost-assassination, and Morrigan joining the Inquisition.

And as Cassandra cleans her dress uniform herself that night, the flecks of blood dark against the blue sash, she briefly wonders whether she’s even living, these days, or just surviving.

She ends up at the tavern after, tired and weary, and this time the innocent chatter about the vigilante and the knight and the guard-captain seems like a gentle and innocent distraction.

Cassandra only half-listens to it, taking a swig from her mug.

“Mind if I join you?”

The Inquisitor appears at her table; a smile on her face, like always, but Cassandra notices the dark purple circles under her eyes. She draws out another chair for her friend without saying a word, and the Inquisitor sits down with a tired plonk, slumping against the backrest immediately.

“You charmed them quite expertly today,” Cassandra says, leaning back in her chair as well.

The Inquisitor smiles sheepishly. “Thank you. Anything to avoid more bloodshed at this point.”

 “We’ve had more than enough of that these past months, yes,” Cassandra nods.

Quiet covers them like a blanket, and they sip from their respective drinks for a few more moments. Cassandra dares a glance at her friend in the low light; her face looks a little taut with trying to keep a smile on her face, hair brushed back without any thought to its style.

The scarf around her neck looks ratty and dirty, with some of the stitching coming out. She isn’t wearing her signature gloves and the little thieves’ toolkit strapped to her hip is missing. All signs of being too tired to care.

Cassandra still remembers the first time they met face-to-face, eye-to-eye, in the prison below the Chantry.

A bastion now destroyed, shaken; just like the Inquisitor’s life. Taken for a good cause, but something that her friend would never get back. That sense of normalcy that was before, nevermore, and Cassandra knows how it feels. How it can wear and tear at you like the sea erodes the rocks of the shore.

Just as she wants to lean forward and ask the Inquisitor if she’s okay, her friend turns her head and does the same thing.

“Cassandra,” she says gently, reaching out and touching Cassandra’s hand, “how are you holding up?”

She’s always felt a little exposed; a little naked beneath her friend’s gaze. The Inquisitor’s eyes seem bright and all-seeing, and being in their intense focus is a spotlight that makes Cassandra’s heart stutter.

But she’s known her long enough by now to know how to combat the feeling.

“Ugh,” Cassandra snorts, both because she feels it and because she knows that it will make her friend smile.

“After the monstrosity that is Halamshiral?” she adds, raising an eyebrow. “How would _anyone_ hold up after something like that?”

The Inquisitor chuckles; a warm, calming sound. “That’s why I’m asking,” she explains, still laughing. “Look, Cass – I know you don’t like Orlesians and their culture and their ruffles, but…” Her eyes grow softer. “I couldn’t go without you, you know? I feel safer knowing I’ve got you by my side.”

Cassandra’s throat goes a little dry as the Inquisitor’s fingers brush past hers again. “I,” she starts, not knowing what to say, “I will take that as a compliment.”

( _We’ve been here before_ , she thinks, _and I told her much the same_.)

Her friend’s cheeks flush, and she pulls her hand back across the table as if burned. “Shit, I’m sorry,” she says immediately, shaking her head. “Sorry, Cass. I know you asked me to stop with the flirting. I didn’t mean…”

She sighs, closing her eyes, and she looks so defeated. “I didn’t mean it like that. You’re a very good friend,” she eventually settles upon, offering another smile, “and I’m happy that I’ve got you.”

Cassandra carefully watches her friend’s expression and that strange tautness to her smile; the pretending of it pangs in her heart.

“I have told you before,” she says, choosing her words carefully, “that I admire you. And I am proud to know you. It is not…” She nods at her friend a little awkwardly. “I’m happy to have you as my friend as well, Inquisitor.”

The Inquisitor looks relieved, eyes bright once more, and they are back to their drinks again for a bit while Maryden sings songs of templars, mages, and adventure. A few tavern-goers are dancing to her tunes near the stairs, and Cassandra thinks she spies some of the Bull’s Chargers amongst them.

Then, somewhere between Maryden’s dulcet tones and the clink of mugs near the bar, the Inquisitor speaks up with an amused grin.

“I noticed your name isn’t up on the chalkboard,” she says, using her mug to gesticulate towards the board on the wall. “No ideas on who our trusted guard-captain should end up with?”

Cassandra huffs, her lips drawn into a tight line. “I have many thoughts,” she says sharply, “but unlike the rest of you I do not feel like sharing them with the entire _world_.”

The Inquisitor is still grinning. “I’d be interested in hearing them,” she smiles. “I mean, you _are_ the expert here on everything _Swords & Shields_.”

Cassandra takes another determined sip of her mead. “I am,” she says, voice steadfast, and the Inquisitor barks a little laugh across their table at that.

“Well, come on then,” she says, teasing, “who do you think is the most likely one?”

Cassandra studies the woman at her table, trying to weigh her options – she trusts the Inquisitor like she trusts no one else, and she knows that her friend wouldn’t make fun of her, but somehow this still feels like heading into dangerous territory.

So she does what she always does when there’s a threat, even if it’s a subtle one, and she goes on the attack.

“Your name isn’t on there, either, Inquisitor,” she counters, leaning forward on her arms. “Who do _you_ think will win the guard-captain’s heart?”

Her friend’s smile grows softer, smaller suddenly. “I’m not that good at romance,” she says quietly, her eyes not meeting Cassandra’s, “and I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

Cassandra feels like there’s something she’s missing; something vital, something that she should’ve known about. But before she can speak up, her friend is back to another beaming smile once more.

“Tell you what,” the Inquisitor nods, clinking her mug against Cassandra’s, “I’ll tell you next time we have a quiet evening at the tavern. Okay?”

“Alright,” Cassandra says, “agreed.”

Perhaps she wouldn’t have agreed if she’d known just how far away that next time would be.

Perhaps she wouldn’t have agreed if she’d known just how badly their journey to the Temple of Mythal would wreck the Inquisitor, torn between Solas’ and Morrigan’s snarking battles of anger, and faced with the reality that if Corypheus would claim the Well of Sorrows, they would all be doomed.

 _Everybody is always making things more difficult for her_ , Cassandra thinks, _as if Corypheus himself wasn’t enough already_.

The Inquisitor had pushed on, regardless of the difficulty, and Cassandra had followed, as she always did.

And again, they’d survived, but had they lived?

Cassandra hadn’t known the answer.

Battered and bruised, tired and worn, they end up at the tavern again that night.

The Inquisitor is still sporting a black eye and a split lip, and she limps slightly as she walks. Cassandra isn’t faring much better; her left cheekbone is bruised and swollen, her ribs on that side black and blue. But, the warriors they are, they nod at each other and fill their mugs, and the Inquisitor attempts to ignore her split lip while she drinks.

“Let’s not talk about the heavy stuff,” the Inquisitor says, her voice raspy.

“Agreed,” Cassandra echoes.

“I haven’t put in a bet yet,” the Inquisitor continues, looking at the board, “but I’ve finally figured it out.”

Cassandra musters an amused grin through the thudding pain in her body and leans back. “This I have to hear.”

Her friend throws her a similar smile back. “Brace yourself, Seeker. I got this one in the bag.”

“You are a foolish woman,” Cassandra teases, crossing her arms. “Doubtlessly, you will have it wrong.”

The Inquisitor tilts her head back, and Cassandra witnesses a change.

Her face relaxes, tension seeping out of it, and her eyes narrow in a sleepy, half-awake kind of way. It makes her lashes stand out in the firelight, the curl of her lips so gentle that it’s barely there, and a simple slouch to her posture that doesn’t happen that often.

It speaks of comfort, and something more.

“It’s Countess Constance,” the Inquisitor says then, “the captain’s friend.”

And Cassandra completely forgets about anything that has to do with prettiness and a delicate orange glow of the flames, because everything inside of her rebels at what the Inquisitor just said.

“What,” she barks at her friend in shock. “The Countess? You must be _mad_ , Inquisitor.”

Her friend shrugs. “Nope, I’m not. It all makes sense, really. You’re just not seeing it.”

“It is a _ridiculous_ notion,” Cassandra declares, crossing her arms tighter. “They have no chemistry. They – ”

The Inquisitor shakes her head. “Wrong,” she singsongs, interrupting Cassandra. “They have all the chemistry.”

“Explain,” Cassandra demands, placing her hand flat on the table, her injuries forgotten, “ _now_.”

She considers herself the first and foremost expert on _Swords & Shields_, and quite apt at analysis of its characters, its plot, its themes, and its… smuttiness. If Cassandra would join the betting pool, surely she would win. She knows Varric’s works through and through; knows how he weighs his plot twists against what his audience wants, and from there it’s not that hard to predict whose arms the guard-captain might fall into.

But to say that it would be Countess Constance?

Utterly and completely _ridiculous._

“Okay, listen,” the Inquisitor says, putting down her mug and gesturing somewhere in the distance, the broad sweep of her arm painting an imaginary horizon. “Really try to picture it, will you?”

Cassandra snorts. “I am not very imaginative.”

Her friend rolls her eyes. “I don’t care. Try.” She pauses, and clears her throat.

“Here,” she says, motioning towards the left, “we’ve got the guard-captain. She’s got all these burdens on her shoulders and she’s trying really desperately to solve crime and do the right thing. She goes through hell in all her adventures, but she always bounces back.”

The Inquisitor pauses, and motions to the right. “And here, we have the Countess. Met the guard-captain during one of her first crime-solving sprees, and they became fast friends. No matter what shit the captain goes through, Constance is there providing support.”

Cassandra sighs. “As friends are wont to do, Inquisitor.”

“Yes, yes,” her friend nods, “I know. But listen – she’s there for _everything_. I mean, she’s the only one who understands what the captain really goes through; her innermost thoughts, her pains, her insecurities.”

The Inquisitor wraps her arm around Cassandra’s stiff shoulders, still gesturing with her free hand. “She’d support her in life and death; she fights for her, protects her, loves her. She’s the captain’s rock and advisor; her best friend and her right-hand woman.”

Now it’s Cassandra’s turn to roll her eyes, trying to ignore that the warmth of the Inquisitor’s arm bleeds into her armorless shoulders, doing something strange to the beating of her heart.

“I see your point,” she admits, “but still there is a lack of romance. Of _passion_.”

“Nonsense,” the Inquisitor says, shaking her head, and her arm tightens around Cassandra’s shoulders. “What about that time when the captain was about to get beheaded, and the Countess threw herself at the magistrate’s feet, weeping and tearing her clothes?”

“The desperation and love of a true friend,” Cassandra says sternly.

“Ugh, you’re impossible,” the Inquisitor sighs. “Then what about that time the captain went after that pirate ship, and Constance held her tight and told her to come back safely no matter what? She even kissed her hand!”

The Inquisitor slaps her own thigh as if it would strengthen her argument. “Come on, Cass, you’ve got to admit that kissing someone’s hand is a romantic gesture,” she adds, sounding exasperated.

“It could be,” Cassandra says stiffly, “but not in that context. They are close friends, nothing more.”

“Friendship is the perfect basis of any type of relationship,” the Inquisitor says, voice raised, and people are starting to notice. “I swear to the Maker, Constance would do anything for her captain. And that stupid dolt doesn’t even notice.”

The Inquisitor removes her arm, and the loss of closeness and warmth is more noticeable than Cassandra would’ve thought. But she has no time – no time! – because what the Inquisitor is saying is making her sputter.

“The guard-captain is not a dolt,” she says sharply. “She is quite bright and her wit and determination are what see her through in many a difficult situation!”

The Inquisitor facepalms. “And yet she can’t see what’s right in front of her,” she sighs. “Come on, Cass, they’re perfect for each other. The captain got stood up by so many people, both crushes and friends, and Constance has been… well, the only constant in her life. They _belong_ together.”

“Constance is a woman,” Cassandra blurts out in a final attempt to argue against the Inquisitor.

Her friend’s face blanches, and Cassandra immediately cringes at herself.

( _We’ve been here before_ , she thinks, _and what a fool am I to say the same once more._ )

The Inquisitor leans back, expression now darkened, and shakes her head. “Sometimes,” she says, voice devoid of any emotion, “you’re dreadfully set in your ways, Cassandra.”

“Varric wouldn’t write that in,” Cassandra says, trying to rather desperately erase her mistakes by making something up along the way. “He rarely introduces romances involving two or more women. That’s – that is my analysis.”

Her friend’s gaze is hollow. “Nice save, Cass,” she says, her voice bitter.

Cassandra wants to say something, _anything_ , because this is a very ugly thing that is suddenly unfolding, and it’s her fault. And she promised herself that she would never try to be the cause of any of the Inquisitor’s troubles, wouldn’t make it any harder than it already was for her –

And now here they are.

The Inquisitor rises from her chair. “I wouldn’t put in a bet, anyway.”

She won’t meet Cassandra’s eyes, and Cassandra rises as well, placing a hand on her friend’s arm. “Inquisitor – ”

“Like I said,” she says softly, stepping away from her, “I was never any good at romance.”

Cassandra catches her gaze before the Inquisitor turns and walks towards the exit, and her bright eyes seem wet.

Everything in her breaks, and Cassandra isn’t quite sure why it hurts so much.

She spends the next few days in solitude, barely speaking – and if she does, it comes out stoic or angry or snappish. She tries every technique she can think of, but none of them make her feel any better than before.

(She hunts bears.

She hits Iron Bull with a stick.

She spars with Cullen in the courtyard several times, and wins every single time even though he gives it his all.

She destroys five training dummies and then rebuilds them again.

She spends time with Cole, who says he can barely hear her hurt over the raging storm in her heart.

She runs laps over Skyhold’s walls with Sera perched upon her back as an extra weight.

She takes a sip of one of Solas’ disgusting teas.

She attends one of Vivienne’s parties in Val Royeaux, throwing out everyone who tries to make trouble.

She asks Varric who the guard-captain ends up with in the next instalment and isn’t happy with his answer.)

And then, after a week, she climbs Skyhold’s highest tower and leans against the battlements while she watches the sunset. She’s tired and tense from all those days of fighting and barking and being angry at people, but most of all at herself. She tries to evoke the feeling of when a spirit of faith touched her mind during the Vigil; the calm, the hope, the belief.

Tries to clear her head by watching the snowy, mountainous horizon, the setting sun casting a warm glow over the landscape.

She did her friend a terrible wrong.

So much has happened this year; so much desperation, destruction, and pain. Cassandra knows that she’s too harsh, too brash, too pushy, and where that has gotten her at times. Her relentless nature has always made her an excellent Seeker, but her people skills require some polishing.

And it’s not right, is it – to hurt your closest friend, if it is _your_ world that has fallen apart and needs stitching together?

Because the Inquisitor was there for all of it.

When Cassandra needed someone to close the Breach, the Inquisitor was brought to her, scared and hopeless and with a strange mark upon her palm. But she nodded and she persisted, and lessened the Breach’s strength.

When the Inquisition needed help in closing the hole in the sky, she pursued every lead that Josephine and Leliana gave her. Where others stood motionless, she enlisted the mages and eventually healed that ugly marring within the heavens.

And when Cassandra walked physically in the Fade, the Inquisitor reassured her that it was alright – and led her out of there. Battled demons and talked to spirits and jumped in front of her when the Nightmare almost got to her. Opened rifts where there were none, and then they were back in the real world once more.

She can still hear the Nightmare’s awful voice in her dreams.

_Your Inquisitor is a fraud, Cassandra. Yet more evidence that there is no Maker, that all your “faith” has been for naught._

But the Inquisitor had not faltered, and Cassandra had realized that it hadn’t mattered, in the end. Whether sent by the Maker or otherwise, the Inquisitor could never be labelled as a fraud for all the things she had achieved. And eventually, she had realized that it was much the same for Divine Justinia – or her spirit, or her soul, that had appeared in the Fade.

The Inquisitor had been there for many of those conversations as well, quiet whispers about faith and trust near the fireplace while Cassandra’s fingers trembled as she wrote her report.

And even when Cassandra had to face one of the most difficult battles of her life, the Inquisitor had been there. Her arms around her in comfort, in that desolate ruin that made up Caer Oswin, where Cassandra had to take the life of her former apprentice. Her determined face as they took down Lord Seeker Lucius together.

And her friend’s firm belief in Cassandra’s ability to reshape the Seekers as she thought fit.

She hadn’t doubted her for a second.

Cassandra thinks of Duchess Florianne and of Halamshiral, with all its scheming and dreadfulness. Thinks of how the Inquisitor shielded her from the worst of the nobles, drew her away from those who were pompous enough to propose her for her hand in marriage, and of how cleverly she tried to talk everyone into a peaceful solution.

Of how knowingly she brought Cassandra a drink on the balcony, a reassuring glint to her eye.

What had she said?

_“I’ve always wanted to dance at a grand gathering like this, but I hadn’t imagined I’d be waltzing with the almost-assassin of the Empress of Orlais.”_

There had been a pause.

_“Do you like dancing, Cassandra?”_

_“Nobody ever asks, and that is fine by me. But that means I have no idea whether I would enjoy it or not.”_

_“I could ask you this very instant. Would you say yes?”_

_“Don’t be silly, Inquisitor.”_

It was a lie, all of it. Cassandra would love to dance at a ball, just as much as she loves poetry and romance. With someone who respects her, loves her, knows her like she knows herself.

With someone like the Inquisitor, it could have been a beautiful experience.

The sun has set behind the mountains in the meantime, and the cold air brushes against her fingers.

Cassandra thinks of other things, too, and they blend together like the mosaics in the stained-glass windows of many a countryside Chantry. Little snippets, little side-notes in the margins of her life that not many people would notice. Not even people with an eye for detail like Varric has.

The birthmark just below her ear, the freckles across the bridge of her nose.

The crinkles at the sides of her eyes and the tilt of her mouth whenever she smiles.

The way candlelight paints her like a romantic Fereldan tapestry, all soft lines and hidden courage.

The curve of her fingers around the handle of a sword or dagger, and the jut of her jaw as she draws her bow.

The way her name sounds on her tongue, even if it’s just the shortened version of it.

And Cassandra thinks so suddenly and vividly that she almost says it out loud: _I am terrible at romance._

Because between the heaps and heaps of silly romantic books, of _Swords & Shields_, of horrendous and beautiful love poetry, of roses and fanciful notions, of hand-kissing and twirling and dancing – Cassandra always expected romance to be easily noticed and explicit.

Expected to be swept off of her feet like a stampede, her heart a war drum, her body begging to be loved. To know for certain, upon meeting someone, that they were it.

She didn’t expect it to be in the details, in the side-notes, in the way the warmth of a hand felt, in the way a smile could light its own fire in her heart. She didn’t expect it to build up, to burn so slowly she barely noticed. She didn’t expect not to know where to look.

She didn’t expect to be afraid of it, and she didn’t expect the things she learned from her books and from the world to hold her back.

To stop her from seeing what she could have seen coming, had she been more attentive to the details.

“I am a fool,” she says to the wind, her words immediately lost to the dusk. “A fool in love.”

But a Seeker of Truth goes the distance, _always_ , and Cassandra’s feet are quick as they carry her down the stairs of the high tower, back to Skyhold’s courtyard. It’s not that late and there are still people about, but she finds that she doesn’t care anymore about what other people might think of her.

Just about what one person might think.

Her strides are strong and long, and her writing is steadfast and sure as she takes the chalk in hand.

She hopes it’s enough.

* * *

 

The next morning, _The Herald’s Rest_ is more busy than usual.

Varric has finally released his newest volume, and people have come in to collect their bets. The author himself is there as well, congratulating those who were right and instilling a bit of false hope into those who were wrong. Cabot helps distribute the money, Varric signs copies of his book, and Dorian sits in the back with Sera while they comment upon the whole situation with a giddy sort of vigor.

“Hey Cassandra,” Sera quips, chin leaning on her hands, “you lost _a lot_ of money. Whozzat you even bet on?”

Cassandra ignores her, looking away.

Dorian sighs and rolls his eyes dramatically. “Some minor character,” he says tiredly. “Nobody knows what’s gotten into the Seeker. She’s been broody all week and now she’s been betting on the wrong horse as well. It’s just _so_ unlike everybody’s favorite warrior-woman.”

The Inquisitor enters the tavern, then, probably drawn in by all the commotion, and Cassandra’s heart skips a beat. They haven’t really spoken since that night, save for the occasional polite greeting. She imagines her friend’s hurt was still too raw; the Inquisitor forgives easily, yes, but some things are simply not so easily forgiven or forgotten.

Her friend wraps an arm around Varric, ruffling his hair. “Look at you, releasing your new book so soon,” she laughs, “and it looks like you’ve got lots of new fans. Who’s the lucky guy then, huh? Who did our courageous young captain end up with?”

Varric grins. “Does it matter? I might switch it around in the next book. Keeps the audience on their toes.”

“Bastard,” she teases, releasing him and walking to Dorian and Sera’s table with a quick turn-and-sway of her hips.

(Cassandra blushes. She didn’t really notice these kinds of things before, either.)

“The Seeker lost _big_ on this one,” Sera laughs immediately, eyes twinkling.

The Inquisitor raises her eyebrows, looking back at Cassandra. “She did?” she echoes, her face surprised but her eyes never leaving Cassandra’s, despite Sera prattling on.

“I did,” Cassandra says quietly.

The Inquisitor crosses her arms while Dorian and Sera continue to debate Cassandra’s mental state. “Who did you bet on?” she asks, just as quietly.

“Constance.”

It feels like a deafening blow, and the chatter within the tavern seems to instantly fade to the background. Cassandra can tell that the Inquisitor isn’t that angry with her anymore; her posture is easy, relaxed, and she didn’t come in for an argument. But what Cassandra has in mind is still quite a leap from the last time they exchanged more than just a few words.

The Inquisitor blinks once, then twice, and shakes her head as if to clear it. “You came around to my ideas about her and the guard-captain, then?” she says carefully, the words measured.

“Yes,” Cassandra confirms, folding her hands on the table, “I did.”

The Inquisitor takes a step closer. “Does that mean,” she asks, “that we’re okay again? We’re good, you and me?”

“No,” Cassandra says immediately, and her friend’s face falls.

“I thought I knew what romance was,” she says, rising from her chair and walking toward the Inquisitor, “but apparently, I did not.”

Her friend’s face has gone from wide-eyed surprise to careful consideration and now it’s back to surprise again, a warm color blossoming on her cheeks at Cassandra’s proximity. “You didn’t?” she croaks.

“No, unfortunately.”

She looks up at the Inquisitor, squaring her shoulders. “Listen, Inquisitor,” she says sternly, “I do not wish to live a life filled with regrets, and I refuse to back down from… From what I believe to become a regret.”

“Cass,” the Inquisitor starts, her voice hoarse, “are you saying that you’d regret not – not going after me?”

Cassandra swallows the lump in her throat and reaches behind her back. Despite her nerves, it is frighteningly easy to bring up the red rose between them, and she holds it up to her closest, dearest friend. The one she trusts and loves above everyone else.

“Yes,” she confirms, “and though romance is different than I expected…” she pauses, the words heavy in her mouth. “You deserve nothing more than the grandest of gestures after what I said to you the last time we were here.”

The Inquisitor cups the rose in her trembling hands. “Cass, you don’t have to apologize. I – ”

“It was a lie born of fear,” Cassandra says, steeling herself, “and nothing more. I am deeply ashamed. But if you would – if you would still…” she pauses, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I could understand it perfectly if I would not be to your liking.”

The Inquisitor is too close and too bright. Cassandra can smell the leathers of her overcoat, and the soap she uses to wash her hair. Could count her lashes if she wished to or trace the bow-shape of her upper lip. And her hands, so close to her own, are ungloved around the flower between them.

“Cass,” she says gently, and her hands leave the rose to cup Cassandra’s face. “You will always be enough.” She leans in, her nose bumping against Cassandra’s, and her smile blinds the sun. “Are you sure you want this?”

Cassandra lets her breath escape in a shuddery, shaky way. “Yes,” she says, a half-whisper, “I refuse to back down.”

The Inquisitor laughs. “Are you sure you’re confessing your feelings and not preparing for a fight?”

“Do not make fun of me,” Cassandra says, and the Inquisitor’s mouth is close, _so close_.

She places a finger against Cassandra’s lips. “I’m not, I promise.” She pauses and lets her gaze travel over Cassandra’s face. “Be my guard-captain?” she asks then, almost coyly. “My knight in shining armor?”

Cassandra is sure she has never blushed this much in her entire life, but she nods.

“If you would be my Constance,” she replies.

And then the Inquisitor is kissing her.

It’s been a long while since Cassandra has been kissed like this – full of hope and love and laughter and abandon, a body she already knows so well pressing close and two hands cupping her face as if she’s something very precious. Her thumbs are gentle against the corners of Cassandra’s jaw and her mouth tastes like cinnamon tea.

And somehow, even though it’s different, it still matches all her old ideas –

There’s a rose, there’s a romantic confession, there’s a tavern full of people suddenly clapping and cheering, and there’s heat and teeth and tongue. A sudden burst of warmth in the pit of her stomach, a beautiful waist to slide her arms around, and Cassandra is _home_ and this is pure poetry.

This is romance. This is _living_ , rather than surviving.

“You are my world,” Cassandra says, because it’s true.

“I vow to be even more,” the Inquisitor answers, the sentence slipping between their lips, between more kisses given with happiness and ease. Her voice sounds beautiful when she’s out of breath.

And when they pull back and settle themselves in the real world around them, the entire tavern either holds their breath or bursts out in roars of encouragement. Cassandra hates just how smug Varric looks – especially as he winks at her.

But if this is to be the start of a grand romance, and if the dwarf is going to write about it anyhow, Cassandra figures it needs more snappy dialogue.

“Sera,” she says a little haughtily, turning around as she clasps her hand around the Inquisitor’s, “I might have still won that bet.”

In the howling laughter that follows, Cassandra’s eyes find the gaze of _her_ Inquisitor: no longer tired and worn but sparking with life and love, and the world is alright.

**Author's Note:**

> oh my god listen. i love cass so much and it's such a travesty that we don't get to romance her with a female inquisitor!
> 
> the friendship you develop with her over the course of the game is so honest and true, i love it. so this fic is basically using that friendship as a basis for more. and of course i had to work the rejection in somehow because what's a fic without a little angst?
> 
> come yell at me [on tumblr](http://octobig.tumblr.com/), i'm also open to requests!!
> 
>  
> 
> **If you had a fun & happy time reading this fic, please consider leaving kudos! Thank youuu ♥**


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